When I was a kid, I always imagined 24 to be the perfect age. We played house a lot as kids; I was always 24, and had an apartment. Never a house. 24 was the year that would be the most fun, the year when I would really really live.
Okay. So it’s here now.
Last night at a pre-birthday dinner involving margaritas, one of my co-workers asked how old I would be and when I told her, after everyone expressed shock and disbelief at my youth, the co-worker said, “You know, that’s a good age. 24 was a really good year.” Which makes me feel a little better, because maybe other people feel the same way about 24 as I have for years.
So I’m 24. I don’t have an apartment or a house, but in a few months I will. I don’t have it all together but I’m getting closer.
I know that our childhood ideas about adulthood always seem to be overblown and don’t turn out quite the way we imagine, but I really do hope this is a good year.